FORBIDDEN JOURNEY
night long the watchmen walked up and down the camp,
giving raucous cries—I think to show they were not asleep.
Peter refused to be impressed. Two minutes after lying
down he was fast asleep. But I was obsessed by the stories I
had read and I would lie listening to the wind that, like a
gigantic bellows, shook our frail tent at every gust. It was a
bit like lying at anchor in a small sailing boat, and brought
back memories of a few terrific squalls when the mistral was
blowing at Porquerolles and at Rosas; and thoughts, too, of
the south-westerly gale that drove the Atalanta aground off
Yarmouth. But here at least I could feel free of that kind of
uneasiness* It was much to have the sense of security that
the earth gives by feeling it beneath one.
One evening I was writing up my notes when I heard men
running and my Mongol neighbours crying out. Outside,
sparks were leaping in the grass, a white mist of smoke was
spreading and the ground was blackening before one's eyes.
Men were stamping with their feet or beating the earth with
sheepskins and pieces of felt in an effort to divert the fire from
the tents which were in its path. They were not, unfortu-
nately, able to save the dried grass. As if in play, the wind
was driving the flames towards the mountains. The camels
were staring at the approach of the dangerous thing, and as
camels' wool is most inflammable they had to be driven into
safety.
It was a week since we had left Tangar. Now we turned
our backs on the Koko Nor and set offsouth, towards strange,
smoking mountains with all their grasses scorched and dry,
We were coming to regions which were only very vaguely
defined in the Indian Survey maps.* For several days we
were to come on no human beings, though, according to the
map, with its few black dots (signifying camping grounds),
* The indications given by Sven Hedin have never, it seems, been con-
finned by the Calcutta Office.
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